in-between

small patches
scattered across the hillside
in my eye's corner
look like paper
that's been rained on
the day after
you accidentally hit it
with the lawnmower

it's unnatural, out of place
until the corner of my eye
turns somewhere else
and the paper, centered
in my vision becomes
shaded patches of snow

up higher, the powder's deep
where winter's holding on
down lower, we're mountain biking
wearing summer's t-shirts
here, in-between is stuck
undecided
not wanting to commit to the one
before the other's fully played out

and there, on the hillside
I see myself reflected
in that moment when the
waiter wants to take my order

If I could write

If I could write a poem
that rhymes, like those in tomes
lining dusty bookstore
shelves; I'd even pour
all of my thought
into a poem that's not
free verse. Or maybe metered lines
that, juxtaposed like tines
create a fork, will build
a useful verse to still
dis-ease, or maybe quell
a fear. If nothing else,
I'd like to write some good
coherent words. If I could
write a poem that rhymes -
oh, well, perhaps another day.

american dream

next to an impersonal
cineplex
there's a coffee shop
complete with patio seating
out of place in
suburban sprawl

before the movie
i step inside, where
familiar and foreign
are juxtaposed
products i've seen before
alongside european drinks
and candy wrappers
my monolingual eyes
can't decipher

the shopkeeper
friendly, but not overbearing
though he
mixes up his prepositions
still communicates so that
we all understand

in the shop, i begin to
recognize
that his familiar and foreign
are opposite mine

most of us, in our ancestry
left our familiar to arrive
in foreign places
some came unwillingly
some came maliciously

most of us,
however we arrived
simply wanted better for ourselves

the coffee is adequate
the ambiance tolerable
the hope, though,
is life-giving

vacation

Vacate: to cause to be empty or unoccupied
Vacation: an emptying of the ordinary

a break from mundane
when what is normal is
allowed to expand,
the world opening up to
possibility and adventure and
exploration of the
wonders that life offers

or, when the world is
walled off, creating
a manageable interior room
ignoring the mundane
in favor of fictional worlds
where the extent of my worry is
fresh fruit and books -
do I have enough of each?

Colorado, April in the Garden

brittle and brown tomato plants,
decorated with shriveled
red and yellow bulbs, skins
toughened by october's sun

and november's frost,
linger in the garden
neglected as the Christmas tree
set on January 6th's curb
for January 4th's pickup,
still bearing those three ornaments
homemade years ago by cousins
barely remembered and unseen for
- what? - twenty years?
still, those days were good,
the whole family around a tree and
a table that groaned under
the weight of pounds of turkey and
generations of stories.

I dream,
as I dig in the garden,
nostalgic for childhood innocence
or, at least, for next year's
tomatoes

memories of a frog in a bog

a frog in a bog
came out of my pencil
in seventh grade,
hopping onto the page
bringing the bog
(and a log) in tow

the contest was
school-wide
though i didn't enter

still, when the results
and poems/stories/essays
were published
we were all excited ~
who would win?
what did they write?
what would it be like
to see your name
your friend's name
in print?

in typical fashion
i forgot the day
was the day
a normal day
seventh grade, like
every other
was transformed
when a frog
with a log
in a bog
was top dog

i only understood
that the assignment
'write a poem'
wasn't for a grade
when i was handed the
mimeographed
winners page
bearing my
smudged name
in aromatic ink

Poetry Month

April is national poetry month, and I've been challenged to write (and post, no matter how bad they might be) one poem per day through these thirty days. I have no illusions of being able to write decent poetry, but thought it would be a fascinating way to navigate the end of Lent, Holy Week, and the beginning of Easter. We'll see what come of this adventure.